


Night Clubbing

by minkmix



Category: Yoroiden Samurai Troopers | Ronin Warriors
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:47:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22814080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minkmix/pseuds/minkmix
Summary: By tsubaki.As she says:Note:Don’t hate me because I’m tardy as heck... this one was meant for September 1998... apologies! Many thanks-for-the-help to Mink and Jink for the conception and delivery of this monstrosity...same for the one that follows…Again, some people were real, some not. At least one pretty Jamaican was real — flustered the hell out of my friend John on a regular basis *snicker*...—T 6/14/00Seiji is kinda adorable when he gets lost in the world.  Ryo steps up in horror/shock.  You all know Ryo is Seiji gay.  Seiji is Ryo gay. Their love is bizarre.
Relationships: Date Seiji | Sage Date/Sanada Ryou | Ryo Sanada
Kudos: 2





	Night Clubbing

She can’t tell me that all of the love songs have been written  
‘cause she’s never been in love with you before  
your skin smells lovely like sandalwood  
your hair falls soft like animals  
I’m tryin’ to keep cool, but everyone likes you...  
I’m not the only one...  
I want to kiss the back of your neck,  
the top of your spine where your hair hits  
and gnaw on your fingertips and fall asleep, I’ll talk you to sleep  
but I’ll be the one, I will have chosen  
your skin smells lovely like sandalwood...  
and nothing else matters to me...  
your hand  
so hot  
burns a hole in  
my hand.  
I wanted to show you  
\- lisa loeb

Nightclubbing  
By Tsubaki

Song credits to David Bowie, Chumbawumba, Everclear, Socaboys, Tinga Stewart/Ernie Smith, and Apache Indian.

"Four pounds? Four English pounds?"

The solid, square-bodied young woman with her gold tank top and high-hat West End accent turned from the bouncer to the small queue of hopeful clubbers behind her. "Are you all willing to pay four English pounds to get in here? At one AM on a Saturday? How can they be allowed to charge four English pounds?" She turned back to the doorman, tossing her short, dirty-blond hair. "Are you mad? You lot are all mad. Four English pounds?" She addressed the line again, gold-nailed hand on blue-jeaned hip. "It’s supposed to be a pound and a half at this hour, you know. It’s past midnight." She said it again. "FOUR English pounds?"

The black T-shirted doorman hinted to her in a low voice that she might be holding up the queue.

"Damn right I’m holding up the queue. How can you be allowed to charge four English pounds? It’s almost one on a Saturday —"

Seiji stepped out of the line. He moved to the doorway, took the woman firmly by the shoulder and shoved a twenty-pound note into her hand. He gestured sharply with his chin.

"Get inside," he said.

The woman stared up at him. She opened her mouth, then meekly shut it and handed the cash to the doorman.

Ryo sidled up beside him. "Are you sure you wanted to do that, Seiji?" he asked. "I mean, that’s about forty bucks." He did a quick mental calculation. "That’s more than three-and-a-half thousand yen, right there. You just gave, like, four thousand yen to a stranger that you didn’t like very much."

Seiji shot a look of contempt after her disappearing gold-topped back.

"She shut up," he pointed out.

There was very little arguing with that.

The three of them entered the club, Seiji oblivious to the gestures of approval from the other members of the queue. Kento took his bows for him, with theatrical sweeps of his arms. Ryo shoved the master of Hardrock into the building.

"What?" protested Kento. "If he won’t do it, somebody’s got to acknowledge the common —"

Ryo grinned broadly, and gave him another firm shove, in that general atmosphere of I-know-you-and-love-you-well-enough-that-I-can-bash-you-into-a-wall.

"You’re killing my moment!"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever."

Seiji stepped into Club WKD and was immediately, silently horrified. The place was packed wall to wall with people. Sweaty people. Loud people. Gyrating and grinding up against one another. Stepping on each other. Spilling beer on each other. Breathing on each other.

Seiji put a hand to his temple, already feeling the impending migraine beginning to throb in time to the earsplitting bass beat, as the movement of the crowd swept him towards the huge black speakers. Oh yes, and this was very intelligent — they put the speakers directly beside the bar. Seiji gave an inaudible sigh.

He looked around — tall as his friends considered him, he couldn’t see over half the heads in this place. Kento was behind him, but his was the only recognizable face.

"Where is Ryo?" he asked.

"What?" shouted Kento, with exaggerated lip movements. He pointed to his ears. "Can’t hear you."

Seiji shut his eyes resignedly and sighed again, then took a deep breath.

"Where’s Ryo?" he shrieked.

"Um... I think he got stopped at the door," Kento hollered back.

"But my friend just paid!" Ryo protested.

"Oi didn’t see no friend," the doorman replied.

Ryo pointed inside. "He just paid, he just paid for me."

The doorman folded his arms.

"The tall blond one?" Ryo tried again. "I’m with him, he went in with the Chinese guy. You had to see him, he was talking to that lady in the gold —"

"Four pound, thenk you vurry much."

"He gave you twenty! That’s enough for five people, you oughta be giving me four pounds!"

"Look here, my foine Yankified friend, you can either give me four quid and go inside, or you can carry yer arse back home."

"Do I look like a Yank to you!?"

The doorman sent a glance over his shoulder to a colleague behind the till: a Nordic-faced fellow, broad of trunk, white-blond of head, thick of arm and lengthy of leg. This spawn of ancient Vikings rose, and kept rising until he had risen a good head and shoulders and some chest above Ryo.

Being that calling armor and trouncing a fellow twice his size in every aspect over the equivalent of seven-and-a-half bucks would 1) be somewhat petty and 2) would thoroughly defeat the purpose of vacationing incognito, Ryo sighed furiously and rummaged through his pockets.

The late-night September breeze stirred in his hair, and he shivered a little. Behind him, strangers fidgeted politely.

Finally, he dumped four pounds worth of five- and ten-pence pieces into the doorman’s outstretched palm, muttering "There, ya happy?" under his breath.

The doorman quickly cupped both hands around the cascade of falling small change. He scowled.

It was kinda satisfying.

WKD was a small club, a square building barely two stories high, cradled by the J. Sainsbury’s supermarket on Kentish Town Road, an infant edifice tucked under the metallic maternal arm of the supermarket’s parking garage. Glass and steel and brick — sound boomed and huge-bright windows flashed a bronzed spectrum across the flyers and handbills that littered the grey pavement, giving the street an air of cheerful futuristic dystopia.

Kento surveyed the tiny kingdom of lights around him, the crush of people, the brick walls, the low multicolored lamps that hung from the ceiling. Dark-skinned, smooth-haired Indian girls with BBC voices, their foreheads decked with the tiny plastic gems that were so prevalent in Camden Town; blue-jeaned and braided Caribbean girls with thick eyelashes and broad smiles; English girls all tank-topped and pigtailed and multiple earringed, males scattered like shadows among them in grey-black, green-black, blue-black, burgundy-black; watching them, like butterflies.

Kento had to admit, he loved this club. People came first to dance, not pull, it was understood — therefore it was that much easier to talk to (or stand beside) a chick in a friendly-type way without being immediately spat on, since she didn’t automatically feel like prey. Maybe even start a conversation. It was nice. Total eye-candy shop.

" ‘Nightclubbin’... we’re nightclubbin’... we’re what’s happening’..." Kento hummed contentedly, the speakers deafening him even to the sound of his own voice.

I get knocked down  
But I get up again  
no they’re never gonna keep me down...

Ryo identified the top of Seiji’s blond head near the bar, and elbowed and ferreted his way through the crowd, the only form of locomotion possible in this place.

"Took you long enough." Ryo had to read Seiji’s lips. There was the slightest quirk at the corner of his mouth, that only the most liberal would interpret as a smile — the Seiji-equivalent of ribbing.

"They wouldn’t let me in!" Ryo began — but it was far too loud to complain properly. He shrugged.

Seiji was appalled — although, since appallation on Seiji’s stoic visage pretty much resembled happiness, or disgust, or boredom, or any of a variety of emotions, it was not readily evident to the untrained eye.

More than anyone else in the universe, perhaps, Ryo was trained.

He attempted to steer them to a slightly less crowded portion of the bar. Unfortunately the less-crowded sections were closer to the speakers. He gave up.

"Ryo." Seiji’s eyes were wearied. "People are touching me."

Ryo stared at Seiji, resisting the utterly non-facetious urge to bend down and inspect the hem of his garment for fingerprints.

"This wasn’t my idea." Ryo enunciated broadly so Seiji could read his lips over the racket. His annoyance had not yet subsided completely.

Both heads swung to look at Kento, who was obliviously watching dance floor, rocking on his feet in time to the music.

"What?" Kento questioned, innocently.

spin around and fall down...  
come on now, do that stupid dance for me  
come on, come on, dance with me dance with me  
come on, come on, dance with me dance with me

On a whim, Ryo leaned close to Seiji’s ear, grinning crookedly.

"Come on, come on, dance with me dance with me —" he murmured along with Art Alexakis.

Seiji gave him the dark, narrow-eyed glance with which he usually responded to idiotic suggestions. Which was exactly what made the question safe. Ryo really wasn’t sure what he would have done if his invitation had been accepted.

The night was young and the beat was strong, the music gradually fading from EuroAngst to CaribeoJoy.

Ryo was a little ambivalent about clubs, as a concept. People tended to be happy there, which was great, and kind of infectious — but on the other hand, strangers tended to want to talk to you. And maybe get your phone number. Which was way too unsettling. Clubs were basically loud places to get a drink: not something you wanted to make a habit of, but it never hurt to humor Kento once in a while.

Much.

Kento turned to Ryo with a lopsided grin and motioned to the dance floor with his head.

Ryo’s eyes widened in incomprehension, and then went even wider with horror.

"Oh — oh no. No. Hell no."

Kento laughed: "You just asked him to."

"Y - yeah," Ryo stammered, realizing his bluff had been called, "yeah, but look at him."

Seiji was installed rather comfortably at the bar, a seat having been vacated for him. An assortment of barflies were now offering him several kinds of cigarettes. He had that effect on people.

"Oh come on," Kento said.

"Uh - uh. No way am I going out there —"

"Dude, what’s the point then?" Kento mouthed. "Y’stand next to a speaker and go deaf or stand next to drunk people and get beer spilled on your shoes? We coulda gone home."

Ryo mewed.

"C’mon," Kento wheedled. "You can’t go to a club and not dance."

"I can’t dance," Ryo pointed out.

"You can jump up and down to a beat, can’tcha?"

Ryo’s eyes widened even further, and he shook his head vigorously. Kento grabbed his arm.

"I’ll look like an idiot," Ryo protested.

Kento’s eyes scanned the room. "Look at that guy," he said. He pointed out a large, balding, sweaty man in jeans and a faded polo, dancing much too close to any available body — not big enough to be corpulent, not distinctive enough to be homely, just old enough to be sad. His drunken, heavily lidded eyes were half shut; his round head shone in the spotlights. He kept the beat, but barely, sort of lurching from side to side and leaning sweatily on people. The clubbers around him rhythmically avoided proximity, dancing him a wide berth.

"I don’t wanna look like that!" Ryo exclaimed.

"Right," Kento agreed. "No way’re you gonna look as goofy as him."

Ryo continued to fidget nervously.

"What’s so hard about it?" Kento said. "You face the stage and jump up and down."

"Um," said Ryo, "Seiji will be all alone?"

Both heads swung to look at Seiji, who was having his cigarette eagerly lit by a thin, chestnut-haired, puppy-eyed young man, while trying very hard at the same time not to associate with or acknowledge him in any way.

Absently, he flicked his ashes on the boy’s burgundy-black clad arm. The boy looked down at his sleeve with a mixture of dejection and gratitude, then stared up at Seiji again, eyes full of silent melancholy worship.

Kento gave Ryo a pointed look. "Um, I think Seiji will be fine?"

Ryo looked down.

"Look," Kento said, "you stand out worse by just sitting here."

"I like it here?"

"Oh give me a break," said Kento, fed up, bodily dragging him out onto the floor.

Follow de leadah...  
follow de leadah, leadah...  
Follow de leadah...

…And it was not even a very good cigarette.

Seiji was on his second pint of Foster’s. He rubbed at his temple with one hand, transferring at least some of the coolness of his glass to his forehead. And which brilliant modern mind had decided to place the speakers right next to the bar, he wondered absently.

Seiji stubbed the butt out on the counter, disentangling himself from his wistful admirer.

He inched his way through the crush along a right angle, heading towards the stairwell on his right. Perhaps on the second floor there would be space to walk for more than six centimeters without having intimate physical contact with strangers.

The stairwell itself was actually a relief. It was cool here, and roomy, although currently populated by a scattering of the ill, the exhausted, and the unabashedly horny, sitting on the steps and rubbing their temples, or pressing each other into the wall, or absorbing the breeze coming in through the opened emergency door.

Dammed, however, if Seiji was going to stare at cinderblocks for hours. He mounted the stairs, wending his way around a triad of woozy teens and a couple who argued in (relatively) hushed voices.

Play de music … play de music  
jump like leggobeast  
sip de wa - tah … love ye dah - tah  
play de music sweet  
smoke ye pipe an’ - a … feel a’ right but  
play de music beat, beat  
no mattah what ye do  
ye kya’ get through unless you  
play de  
play de  
play de music...

The second floor was not a huge improvement over the first. Some black leather sofas, some elbow-high tables, less dancing. No speakers though; evidently the brain-trusts who’d placed the speakers on top of the bar downstairs hadn’t managed to meddle around up here.

Intimate physical contact with strangers, however, was proving unavoidable.

Dammit, if he was going to have intimate physical contact with strangers, at the very least he should be in charge of it. And there should be some nudity involved.

Actually, considering some of the apparel being sported, nudity was not that distant a goal… Seiji studied a tall woman whose silver-and-black lamé top piece was cut very low and whose red-and-gold spangled bottom piece was cut very high. He frowned disapprovingly. If you were going to attract attention to yourself, you could at least do it with some kind of decorum.

The loudly-clad person winked at Seiji, striding directly toward him and bumping him in the chest.

She did that on purpose, thought Seiji, looking up.

He was not accustomed to looking up so high. His mouth was on a level with her throat. He looked up a little higher and saw chin stubble. Seiji blinked.

But there was no adam’s apple.

Now he was unsure.

Seiji made an abrupt and immediate about-face.

Maybe sometime when he was a little bit closer to sober. Not right now.

There was a second, smaller wet bar up here. All the seats were filled, and patrons squeezed between and around and behind them to call out their orders.

Seiji made his way over to it, sliding between two occupied barstools, ignoring the two tall, black-suited bodies he squeezed in between. He waited his turn to holler a drink order at the bespectacled, bedredlocked bartender, but as he was not nearly as adept at hollering as the other patrons, he was bypassed three times.

The occupants of either barstool stared down at him, highly amused. Subtle gestures were exchanged over his head, with a rustle of Victorian-black suit sleeves.

Seiji was unaware of this.

Without any warning that Seiji was privy to, the harried bartender suddenly shoved a pint glass into his hands. Seiji attempted to pass his fiver to the barkeep, but the besieged young man had moved to the other end.

Sighing, Seiji downed his pint. Not bad. Tasted a bit Belgian.

Another pint was shoved into his hands, with a quick nod and wink from the barkeep before he disappeared once more into the forest of outstretched hands. Again, Seiji’s five went unnoticed.

He attempted to sip this one more slowly. Hopeful patrons squeezed in around him. Two teenagers in glittery eyeshadow wedged themselves in behind him, pressing him to the counter.

Maybe is he stood very, very still, they would go away...

Above his head, the two black-suited barstool occupants exchanged meaningfully raised eyebrows. They gestured (yet again) to the bartender. One slipped a few bills into the bartender’s hand.

Seiji had still not actually looked at either occupant.

A third pint materialized in his hands. Seiji stared at it mistrustfully.

The bartender didn’t know him from Adam. The club couldn’t go giving away free drinks all day if they wanted to stay in business. Things didn’t usually happen like this unless someone was buying you drinks — but then, usually they would have at least tried make eye- and probably hand-contact by now.

This was very suspicious.

He lifted the pint to his nose, gingerly, and sniffed, gripping it carefully between both hands. The glass began to warm between his fingers. It felt funny, almost as if it quivered a little, or vibrated — like a creature that would dart away at first chance if he didn’t hold on.

He blinked. The motion seemed to take longer than usual.

Seiji gave his head a shake to clear it. Then, gripping cautiously with two hands, he raised the glass to his mouth.

He was beginning to lose the feeling in his lower lip.

He looked up. On the opposite end, he could see the bartender give a quick salute to somebody who seemed to be located directly behind Seiji’s head. He turned around, but in the mob, it was impossible to distinguish who.

Tired of waving cash and being ignored, Seiji decided to get the hell away from the madding crowd.

At the front and back of the building, the second floor did not actually meet the red-brick walls. Leaning against the back-wall balcony, Seiji found himself directly over the miniature stage. For a brief lull, a live band was setting up to play.

Seiji stared down. Four guys: drums, sax, guitar, vocal. Almost directly above them, only the tops of their heads could be seen. Like one of those visual-illusion puzzles. Or like moving checkers. Ha. Checkers.

What an odd word. Checkers.

Che - ku - ru - su...

Seiji found himself chuckling.

Fuzzily shocked, he immediately swallowed the sound, eyes darting from side to side. With studied casualness he lifted his glass to his lips once more.

The band made a brief test of their sound equipment.

Seiji became vaguely aware of a tingling sensation across his back. Like his subconscious was trying to tell him something. He shut his eyes and attempted to analyze the feeling, but was unable to focus. His attention wandered.

The band exhausted its repertoire and outstayed its welcome very quickly. Mellow voices, mild, repetitive chords, no real beat to speak of — middle-class poseurs from Leeds singing about oppression and violence in Brooklyn, New York.

A tall young brunette in a very tight skirt marched across the floor. She leaned over the balcony next to Seiji, and with military precision, tipped her pint over the sax player, turned on a heel and marched away. The sax player gave a start, and shivered, beer dripping from the tight curls of his hair, but neither looked up nor missed a note. Seiji had to admire them both their fortitude.

It occurred to Seiji that if the saxophonist did happen to look up, it would be Seiji with a half-empty beer glass that he saw. He gulped down the rest and eased away from the railing.

Seiji didn’t realize just how drunk he was until he tried to cross the floor.

He set his glass down carefully on one of the high tables. With purpose and determination he set his eyes on the opposite balcony and started towards it.

Suddenly he was a little grateful for the crush of people — it was keeping him from teetering.

Oh, this was bad.

Uncle Benjy, inna de yard  
sit down ‘pon a stone  
wife and pickney gone abroad  
lef’ him all alone  
wondering what kind of festival could-a make him stir  
i’ him old bone  
dem-a drop this-a version  
inna de yard  
sing and leap and moan...

Now that the band had been catcalled off the stage and the beat had started up again, Ryo seemed to have lost Kento entirely.

He found, instead, his knees entwined with someone else’s and his rear very much closer to the floor than he remembered putting it voluntarily.

"What the —!?" he mused aloud.

Ryo looked up into a mass of long curly black-haired, open-shirted, five-o’clock shadowed, baritone voiced, bronze-bodied, Mediterranean manliness and found he had only a very unclear idea of how this had all come about.

The fellow grasped Ryo firmly about the waist. "So where joo from? I am from Barthelona."

"Uhh, great," said Ryo, "okay bye."

Using his fingertips to apply firm but subtle pressure to several key points, Ryo extricated himself and hot-tailed it out of there.

Seiji leaned against the railing of the front-wall balcony. There was a much wider view from here. He scanned the crowd.

Ryo was down there, grinning shyly. Seiji knew that look, flush-faced and sheepish. The one that went: I’m-ashamed-and-mortified-to-admit-I’m-enjoying-myself...

Generally the version Seiji was used to was accompanied by heavy breathing and some helpless vaintaking of the Lord’s name (followed by Seiji’s name)... But well, you couldn’t have everything all the time.

Ryo trailed Kento like a life support machine, keeping a mathematically precise distance between them — no more and no less. If you didn’t know better, you would think they were connected by a two-foot rope.

Seiji watched as Ryo disentangled himself from several pairs of eager arms, losing sight of Kento in the process. Ryo’s discomfiture sent a flicker of pleasant warmth across the base of Seiji’s stomach.

He liked Ryo flustered. A lot. He always would — secretly, silently, and internally, of course. It was incredibly... affecting, that artlessness, the way Ryo’s eyes always broadcast his emotions so blatantly he might as well be naked. It was a mystery to Seiji, something he still didn’t quite understand — a sweet little irony, that the thing that for Seiji would be the worst kind of vulnerability was in Ryo simply his nature, his appeal — maybe even his strength.

Seiji smiled, softly, watching.

Poor Ryo. He was sex incarnate and he had no idea.

Quite suddenly, Seiji was prodded by a wave of mild dizziness. His hands tightened on the railing. His body felt heavy.

It occurred to Seiji that a trip to the men’s room might be a wise idea.

Turning slowly, Seiji directed all his concentration of moving each foot at an even, dignified pace.

A second wave hit him as he crossed the floor, stronger — this time, a feeling of being intently, intensely watched.

He frowned.

He turned slowly so as not to throw his head further out of kilter, but could not find the owner of the gaze that so discomfited him.

It wasn’t that the feeling was new, or alien. At home in Japan, Seiji had spent the better part of his life being stared at like a museum exhibit — but here in London, where at least one-fourth of the population looked just like him, it was skin-crawlingly unexpected.

Due to more pressing physical concerns he gave up, finally, and continued carefully across the floor.

Two pairs of eyes followed him.

Boom shak-a-lak are what de people dem want...

A loud cheer of recognition went up from the crowd, who had obviously understood what the DJ had said. Ryo looked around, eyes darting left and right as the crowd began to chant along in a call-and-response with DJ and record.

Me say BOOM shak-a-lak are what de people dem want —

And Kento, Kento was right along with them, chanting the words and grinning and gazing shiny-eyed up at the DJ booth.

Kento understood this?

WHY did Kento understand this?!

BOOM shak-a-lak are what de people dem want  
Woman dem a’ flex and de man dem a’ chant  
Ca’ de sixties style it are fe’ come back  
Draw fort’ ye bell-bottom, black wig and frock  
BOOM shak-a-lak, a’ rude buai —  
Yooooou tell ‘em now, sah —

Ryo found himself caught in the middle of a severe song change. No longer a happy jumping up and down song, this was a song that required movements he preferred not to experiment with in public, thanks.

Off to his left, Kento was merrily gyrating away with the rest of the crowd.

"So you wah born in Choina then?" The girl slinked her body ermine-like around Kento’s, a wide grin dimpling her cinnamon cheeks. Her inky-dark hair was caught up into maybe two hundred little braids, tipped with small white beads, tied back in a bright yellow kerchief.

"Yes!" Kento agreed, happily.

"Cor, that’s raily cool! I’ve never even been to see me mum’s fam’ly in Antigua! So you must be, loike, raily good at math and all?" The dark green lace of her bra peeked over the edge of her Spandex blouse.

"Oh yeah braby!"

"Wow! So have you, loike, evurreaten a monkey brain?" Her shiny braids whipped around her shoulders as she rubbed the contents of her Wonder-bra across Kento’s chest.

Kento beamed, hearing not a word. "Yeah, sure, whatever!"

"Cor!"

Ryo stared, slack-jawed. Amazement was not the word.

Wind you body, wriggle you belly  
Deep and go down inna de new styl – ee  
Wind and go up, Wind and go down...  
Bubble an’ a’ rock-a ca’ de new style aroun’  
a’ you feline it up  
a’ you fe’ fine it up  
A’ you go boom shak-a-lak

It was a little like materializing in Latvia.

What are they saying? Ryo wondered helplessly as he tried to maneuver his way off the dance floor.

Me say de  
English girl a’ do de  
Boom shak-a-lak  
De ‘Merican girl a’ do de  
Boom shak-a-lak  
Me say de H’indian me posse do de  
Boom shak-a-lak  
And de Japanese dem a’ do de  
Boom shak-a-lak

Japanese?

Ryo perked. He had understood a word!

We’re included, he thought. It could almost bring tears to your eyes.

Departure was proving more easily thought than done. Random gyrating hips knocked him about like a pinball. It was like a conspiracy.

Well Ryo wasn’t having it. He would not join — he would not bump and neither would he grind. What he would do was flee.

Boom shak-a-lak it are de brand new style  
Wicked say fe’ wicked cha-cha know say fe wild  
Ragamuffin style or fe’ de disciplined child  
Bubble an’ a’ rock-a ca’ i’ well versatile…

Seiji managed to drag himself to an empty corner of a long couch. The black leather was cool against the back of his neck. He let his head sink into it.

The watched feeling hit him again, this time in full gale force.

As he looked up, a figure at the bar began to stir.

Seiji watched the process as if in slow motion. A long, lean body slouched with poised carelessness raised itself up, began to approach, slender figure wrapped in an ebony turtleneck and long, fitted black coat, whispers of Dickens in the folds of the cloth, a floppy black top hat throwing the eyes into shadow — Dr. Seuss gone Goth. The smooth, coffee-skinned features were upswept, neat, ink-black goatee glittering dimly in the changing lights, and the smile that parted the rose-dusk colored lips was as knowing as hell.

He didn’t so much walk as stalk, like a panther. He panthered himself smoothly across the floor to where Seiji was seated.

It hit Seiji quite suddenly that he was rather... alone on this couch. He was almost sure he hadn’t been, originally. He tried to muster up the energy for discomfort.

As the black-clad figure seated himself with catlike composure, a second black-clad figure rose from the bar like a copper-skinned, smooth-faced shadow of the first. Seiji saw it through the corner of his eye.

"Y’ from foreign?"

Seiji jumped at the voice that suddenly materialized next to his right ear, even though he knew he should have seen it coming; a slow, warm voice, dark and thick and sweet, like hot rum coffee.

"Wh -?" Seiji began, confused by the proximity. He was aware of a second person sitting down on his left side, but was given no chance to look.

"Y’ from foreign?"

"I’m sorry," Seiji said, "I don’t speak... Black."

He hoped that was appropriate.

There was laughter…

It all sounded like English, but not the way he was used to it. The accenting was all wrong — words flowed into each other with no stops between, and he couldn’t figure out what they were.

"I said," drawled the figure, "Are... You... From... Foreign?" The R’s seemed to go on and on, smooth and liquid.

Fahrrrren...

Seiji blinked, looking up into the unfamiliar face. "I’m from Japan," he said, still muddled.

The slow, sweet voice rippled into low laughter, so deep it seemed it ought to rumble the floor — not loud, but there was power under it, hidden, like the gold barely hidden just under the man’s deep brown skin.

"Y’ are confused is what y’ are." The smooth patois voice melded vowels, caressed consonants, rippled and flowed through the tones like warm molasses. It sounded like it should melt things.

Seiji’s head spun — whether it was the voice or the four (six?) pints of god-knew-what he was unable to tell. Probably it was both.

He gave his head a clarifying shake.

"No... I’m... I..." he tried again, but trailed off, forgetting what he was about to say.

The Voice nodded understandingly. " ‘S’arright," he said. He tousled Seiji’s hair, brushing it away from his eyes, tucking it behind his ear.

Some deep-down part of him that managed to retain his Seijiness through the alcoholic blur was very offended. He scowled, fuzzily, sliding to the edge of his seat, intending, tentatively, to stand.

"I have to go now," he announced. "I have to find —"

The Voice smiled down at him as if he were an endearing toddler or a particularly intelligent puppy. He lifted one hand, a slender white cigarette between his long fingers.

It smelled funny.

"All right, me little yellow-hair Japanese boy," Arrright me lickle yellow-here Jappa - neeze buai... "Whateveh you say."

Seiji had no time to ponder. The second, silent Jamaican took Seiji’s face between gentle hands and turned it, pressing his mouth to Seiji’s open lips and breathing his entire drag of ganja smoke into Seiji’s chest.

Wide-eyed, Seiji looked up, blinking helplessly.

"Hack," he said.

The first Jamaican took Seiji’s head in his hands and did the same, emptying the full capacity of his larger lungs, blowing the sweetly-noxious smoke deep into Seiji’s body.

Seiji could make no sound.

He was vaguely aware of the small cigarette flame by his ear, and then of a distant thump as his body hit the ground, laughter like soft fingers across his skin, caressing him into darkness.

With the return of the Oppressed Leeds Brooklynites, the beat died down, the fever of dancing waned, and Ryo was finally able to escape the floor. He pulled on Kento’s arm.

"Seiji’s been gone for a while," he said. He turned, looking around for the familiar golden head, a bad feeling beginning to stir in his chest. "I’m gonna go see if he’s okay."

Kento followed, grinning beatifically, lost in the residue of his vision of thick shiny braids and cinnamon colored cleavage. They followed the flow of patrons trickling to the sides of the dance floor, and made their way to the stairs.

Ryo emerged from the stairwell to find Seiji sprawled on his back across the couch — no, actually across two very tall, black-clad West Indians. One of them had Seiji’s shirt open, his hand twined lightly in Seiji’s hair, and was contentedly sucking on his right nipple. The other sat between Seiji’s spread, unconscious knees and had his hand down Seiji’s loosened pants, groping leisurely through his underwear.

"Seiji?!"

Seiji didn’t stir.

Seiji was not conscious enough to respond.

Seiji was NOT in control of this situation.

Hell was frozen solid, pigs flew and the apocalypse was at hand — Seiji was not in control of the situation.

Ryo’s jaw dropped.

"What the fuck are you doing?!"

There was a smooth riff of laughter from the nipple-nibbler.

"It’s you belong diss’ere yellow-here buai?" More laughter. "I suppose yar from Sweden."

Ryo watched in stunned horror as the cleanshaven silent partner put his glass to his lips, took an ice cube in his mouth and ran the ice down the length of Seiji’s exposed pale belly. He leaned down again and blew gently across the damp skin, raising gooseflesh.

Seiji’s eyes blinked open.

"Ryo?" he said. "Help please."

The goateed guy took a deep drag on his joint, then pressed his lips gently over Seiji’s own, and blew. Seiji’s struggling eyelids fell sleepily shut once more.

"Damn." Kento whistled in shock. "Seiji’s… stoned."

Ryo blanched.

"Get off!" he shouted.

Seiji blinked again.

"People are touching me," he said, as if he had just discovered it.

(Kento, having never been exposed to such a spectacle before, and not entirely sure if this constituted real danger, stared.)

With renewed fervor Ryo tried to push his way through to Seiji, but people seemed to dance by in waves, pushing him a little way forward, a little way back... Wherever he turned, the crowd thickened almost imperceptibly, but just enough to keep him away. Almost as if it were done on purpose. People kept shunting him aside. And copping feels. A woman with a blue butterfly painted on her right temple flashed him a crocodile grin. He was almost sure she had just pinched his ass.

She gave him a wink.

It’s a fucking den of perversion! Ryo thought.

"What are you (excuse me ma’am) what are you doing!? Who are you people!!?"

"Don’t be rude, Ryo." Seiji’s voice was very distant and not altogether lucid. "This is Neville and this is Delroy."

(Actually what he said was "Nebiru" and "Deruroy" — holding onto accent and consciousness and the same time proved simply too much to ask for.)

"Wow," said Kento.

"Sleepy," Seiji whispered. His eyes flickered shut again.

"Ya hear ‘im, buai?" That was "Deruroy." He gave a merrily helpless shrug. "He na’ wan’ go."

"Me wan’ go," Seiji mumbled.

"You... (sorry about that, dude)... you... why you...!" Ryo was still fighting waves of people, trying to make his way to Seiji without harming innocent bystanders.

Seiji’s eyes flickered open again.

"Ryo?" he repeated as if Ryo had just shown up. "Ryo. I thought you left me." His lower lip began to tremble, and a faint mist formed in the corner of his eyes. "You... you left me."

"You lef’ im?" The previously-silent "Nebiru" was scandalized. "How could you?"

"Ai, ya’ wicked, buai..." Deruroy shook his head in cheery disapproval.

"Ryo don’ even care..." Seiji moaned, softly.

"Oh god," Ryo whispered, white-faced.

Kento stood open-mouthed, just absorbing all of this. Ryo clapped his hands over Kento’s ears.

Nebiru shook his head. "An ‘im born a’ yard. Y’ na’ kyan do dat, buai!"

"How y’ kyan leave dis pretty yellow-here buai?" Deruroy admonished. "You na’ right. Y’ a’ fe stay wit ‘im! Y’ a’ fe watch him, y’a’ fe take cyare…"

Ryo threw up his hands. "WHAT ARE YOU SAYING!?"

Kento came out of his shock a little to translate.

"He said, ‘you can’t do that to him, he’s your homeboy, you’re not right, you have to stay with him and take care of him’ —"

"Oh shaddup!" Ryo turned back to the Seiji’s Caribbean captors, wild-eyed and frazzled, his voice a dangerous growl.

"You." A faint smell of ozone crackled in the air. "Let. Him. Go."

The butterfly girl, still dancing, piped up with her two pence:

"Better watch it mate, before they go all kung-fooie on ya."

There was a definite advantage to looking "Oriental" sometimes.

With Seiji firmly in hand, one arm draped over each of their shoulders, Ryo and Kento made their escape down the concrete stairwell and out through the emergency side door.

A stiff breeze blustered through the Sainsbury’s parking complex, the streetlamps casting pale light through the huge metal beams and bars like a giant’s erector set. The muted reggae pulsed through the walls, softening further as the door shut behind them.

Ryo had propped Seiji against the wall as best he could, trying to redo Seiji’s buttons. Kento watched, staring, slowly digesting the significance of all he’d just seen.

"Damn," he said with a small, uncertain laugh. "Can’t take him anywhere, yo."

Without warning, the full force of Ryo turned on him.

One hand still firm on Seiji’s shoulder, Ryo grabbed Kento by the wrist, yanking Kento to him, his eyes burning in that crazy, narrow, tunnel-vision way of his, bluntly, heedlessly direct, blind to all but his objective. His voice was dark, heavy with warning.

"This never happened," he hissed. "You saw nothing, you heard nothing. You got it?"

"Uh -" Kento began.

"You got it?!"

"Yeah!" Kento nodded. "Sure, yeah, fine okay?"

Ryo dropped Kento’s wrist, his full attention once more on Seiji’s state of dishabille.

Kento stared, stunned, cradling his wrist in his right hand. "Shit, man —"

Ryo didn’t hear. He had already taken a step toward the road, Seiji’s arms draped over his shoulders, scouting for the black cabs that sped by.

"I’m... I’m gonna take Seiji back," he said. "You can stay here if you want."

Kento flinched, his head tilted, a strange flicker passing through his eyes as he stared at his friend’s back — an odd look, an odd thought, a moment there, then gone.

"Whatever," he answered. "I’ll come along. Need a hand?"

"Nah, I got him." The fire was completely gone from Ryo’s voice, as if it had never been there. He sighed, tiredly. "You get a cab."

* * * *

It was good, really good, that Seiji had decided not to hurl.

It wasn’t that Ryo minded. Some things you just do. You put gas in your boy’s car when you use it, you do not talk to him when he is reading, god help you if you interrupt him when he’s meditating, you make your side of the bed when you wake up, and when necessary, mid-yak, you help him keep his balance over the bowl.

Seiji wasn’t into being helped though. Which was fine when he was capable, but it meant that he was the kind of drunk who tended to try to convince himself and all else present that he wasn’t drunk. Which then meant that in a state like this, if you left him alone in the bathroom he’d probably bang his head on the sink and knock himself even further out. So this present grogginess was probably a blessing.

Ryo was staying on his toes, though. He stashed Seiji in the bathtub where he couldn’t do any harm.

Seiji moaned a little, blinking, waking.

Ryo eyed him, worriedly. "Yo, Seiji, you okay?"

"Where’m I?" Seiji whispered.

"We’re back at the hotel," he said, and then, involuntarily, chuckled.

"What’re you laughing a’?" Seiji’s voice was an accusatory slur.

Ryo grinned. "You sound like a really bad movie," he said.

Relief was making Ryo a little free and giddy with his words. He straightened up at the sight of Seiji’s half-conscious scowl.

"I mean, I wasn’t laughing Seiji, that was... ah... that was the TV."

Seiji opened his eyes to stare through the door and across the room at the dark, blank TV screen. He blinked, questioningly, then gave up, shut his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall.

Ryo yanked a white washcloth from the towel rank, then put out his hands quickly to keep the rest of the densely-packed linen from falling.

"Ryo," came Seiji’s voice again.

"Yeah?"

"I’m wearing my shower in the pants."

Ryo frowned, translating, then nodded. "Yes you are, Seiji."

"Why?"

"Because you’re stoned."

"Oh."

Ryo ran warm water over the cloth.

"Ryo."

"Yeah?"

"Why’m I wearing pants?"

"Because you’re a guy?"

Seiji scowled, annoyed. "I wasn’ finished."

"Sorry." Ryo wrung out the cloth.

There was a long silence. Beginning to worry, Ryo turned back to the tub.

"Seiji?"

"In the shower."

Ryo frowned, half-puzzled, half-resigned. "What about the shower, Seiji?"

Seiji drew an annoyed breath.

"Why are my pants showering?" he said.

Choosing discretion, Ryo said nothing.

He pulled Seiji carefully out of the tub and balanced him on the edge, wiping his face with the damp washcloth, then eyeing Seiji’s toothbrush and pondering the ramifications of getting water into and then out of Seiji’s face. He knew Seiji would be a lot happier in the morning if he did it, but for right now, considering what they would both have to go through, the idea seemed a little... disrespectful.

He decided to give it a whirl.

"Okay, spit." Ryo held Seiji over the sink, Seiji’s arm draped around his neck. He moved to turn on the water.

Seiji obeyed. Ryo didn’t get his arm out of the way in time.

Seiji’s chest quivered with silent laughter.

"Ha. Ha." Ryo mouth twisted wryly as he rinsed off his wrist. "Baka," he said softly, smiling.

All right, now to proceed?

Ryo balanced a somewhat-clean Seiji on the edge of the bed. "Seiji? I’m gonna take your shirt off now."

Seiji lifted his arms like an obedient three-year-old, and slowly, slowly fell forward, his face in Ryo’s stomach.

Ryo gave a longsuffering sigh. "Seiji c’mon. Help me out here."

There was the sound of teeth clicking against his buttons.

"Er..." Ryo began, "what’re you doing?"

Seiji’s voice was muffled. "I am trying to give you a hickey."

Ryo paused. There were many angles from which this statement could be attacked.

"Um, yes but my shirt’s in the way?" he explained, finally.

"Oh."

The gnawing did not stop.

"Seiji?" Ryo ventured. "Are you hungry?"

Seiji lifted his face a little ways, and frowned.

"Yes I am," he said. He sounded surprised by it.

"Let me get this off you first?"

"H’kay."

Ryo pulled at the shirt managing to get it most of the way off, but it stuck on Seiji’s head, tangling his arms in the air. It reminded Ryo of that first, most ungraceful time he’d tried to get Seiji’s clothing off — he smiled a little, coloring at the awkward memory.

One good yank and the shirt finally surrendered, Seiji’s head popping free. Seiji fell backwards onto the bed.

Seiji stared shirtlessly up at the ceiling.

"Ouch," he said.

"Sorry!!"

"I’m not brushing your teeth again, you know."

There was definitely no room service at this hour, and there wasn’t a whole lot to be scavenged in the hotel room. Definitely nothing that Seiji would be willing to classify as edible.

Rummaging in the closet, Ryo found a bag of Oreos that Rowen had abandoned in his suitcase. This was not among the things that qualified as food in Seiji’s normal estimation, but well… maybe he wouldn’t notice.

He pulled open the bag, put two Oreos on a plate and turned back to Seiji.

"Sorry about this, but there’s nothing else," he began, apologetically. "It’s too late for me to get you, like, fruit or something." He placed the plate carefully on the bed next to Seiji’s knees. "There’s more here if you want, okay?" He put the bag down next to the plate.

Seiji made no response.

Sighing, Ryo turned and disappeared into the bathroom.

When he returned, scrubbed and tank-topped, Seiji was still prone and the Oreos were still on the plate. He sighed again.

"Guess you really didn’t want any, huh," he began, unsurprised. He picked up the plate, and reached out to retrieve the bag of cookies. Which he found completely empty.

"Jesus!"

Seiji’s arm moved as if independent, snatching an Oreo from the plate in Ryo’s hand.

"Have you ever had these before? These are… good." Seiji sounded astonished.

"You… you like ‘em?"

"Don’t you?"

Ryo frowned, disturbed. "Seiji you know those are full of, like, fake chemicals and shit?"

"Huh?"

"Uh, never mind." What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. At least not until morning.

Seiji gnawed on the crumbly chocolate.

"Wow, Seiji, you got the munchies," Ryo observed.

Seiji paused. "I who the what?"

"Never mind." Ryo sat on the edge of the bed and bent to unlace his sneakers, leaving Seiji to his cookies.

"Do we have milk, Ryo?"

"Uh - uh."

It was kind of hard to tell if Seiji was awake or not. He hadn’t moved. Ryo pulled the plate from his hand, and met no resistance.

Seiji’s head turned slowly to the side, lips parting in a very soft snore.

He was slipping in and out of consciousness at a rate that under any other circumstances would have made Ryo nervous. As it was, it made the removal of shoes and pants that much easier.

Ryo lifted Seiji’s legs up and slid his body onto the mattress. He circled the bed, grasped Seiji under the arms and tried to haul him up.

Seiji’s eyes flew open.

"What are you doing to me?"

"Putting you to bed," Ryo explained yet again.

"Oh." Seiji shut his eyes again.

It would have been good if he’d remembered to pull the blanket down before he’d stretched Seiji down the length of it. Ryo sighed. Then, screwing up his face in concentration, he grasped the top edge of the blanket near to Seiji’s shoulder and gave it a strong, quick downward pull.

"Ow!"

"Sorry! Sorry!"

Well, it had always worked for those TV guys who did that thing with the tablecloth and plates!

Ryo rushed around to pick Seiji up off the floor.

"Ryo. Do we have macaroni and cheese?" Seiji’s voice was alternately muffled and clear.

"No not really?" Quickly, Ryo grabbed Seiji’s shoulder before he rolled all the way off the opposite side of the bed. He turned down the covers, then reached out and rolled Seiji back to his original position.

"Oh."

Okay, Ryo had to admit it — he sorta… kinda… liked this.

There. It was out. He liked Seiji drunk.

Seiji would... well, he would rub his eyes and when he told you to fuck-off it would be all soft and slurred...

It was incredibly... cute.

Reflex jerked Ryo’s head up, checking the skies for the lightning that was surely gearing up to strike him for his blasphemy.

But it was true though. He liked getting underneath that layer of stoicism, of perpetual control. Even if it was at Ryo’s expense — it was good to hear Seiji laugh out loud.

Disconcerting, yeah. But good.

Or when he... er... made some, well... ah… emotional statement.

It hurt him when Seiji hurt, but at the same time he liked the honesty of it,

not hidden behind a wall all the time, impossible to figure out.

It made him an awful person, he knew, and he did feel properly guilty about it... it was just that... well, it was REAL.

But there had to be some very definite limits. To expose that side of himself had to be Seiji’s own choice. It wasn’t fair to let it happen in front of a crowd.

Ryo crawled into bed — finally. The clock on the bedside table read 3:23 am.

He reached out and pulled the blanket up over Seiji’s shoulders. Semiconsciously, Seiji curled up beneath it, turning his face on the pillow to burrow under Ryo’s hair. Ryo smiled.

Just because he could, he leaned down and whispered in Seiji’s ear:

come on now, do that stupid dance for me—  
come on come on dance with me dance with me—

Sleepily, Seiji stuck his finger in Ryo’s eye.

Ducking, Ryo kissed the top of his head. Then he clicked off the light.


End file.
